


The Hierarchy

by robotboy



Category: Lost in Space (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fisting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom/sub Play, Don't Try This At Home, Enthusiastic Nonverbal Consent, Erotic Electrostimulation, Gags, Other, Robot Sex, Stuffing, Xenophilia, mild bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:23:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: The robot sticks eels in John Robinson’s ass. Yeah, that’s what happens.





	The Hierarchy

**Author's Note:**

> Attentively beta-ed by purplecelery and a user who wisely elected to remain nameless.

John doesn’t sleep. He paces the too-small circuit of the Jupiter, barefoot and silent, careful not to disturb the rest of the family. Each time he passes Will’s room, the robot’s face—if he can call it that—turns toward him, following his path down the corridor. It’s the only movement beside his own. The only sounds are the Jupiter’s various hums and whirs.

John’s still shot through with adrenaline. His fingers twitch and his blood pounds in his ears. They’re safe, finally on solid ground, the ship free of stowaways. Well, not entirely free, but they’re safe. The surviving eels have been corralled into a tank in the lab, so Maureen and Judy (and likely Will) can prod at them to their hearts’ content. Even Penny was eager to come up with names for their newly-discovered alien species. The only person with a sane level of disinterest in the eels was Doctor Smith, and that in itself was worrying.

Another lap past Will’s room and John can't handle the watchful gaze of something without eyes. He veers abruptly into the lab. The eels writhe lazily in their tank when the lights came on, and John props himself against a table to watch them. The ones they’ve caught might be immature, lacking any fangs or ridges and too foolish not to get caught. They look smaller when they aren’t trying to wrap themselves around his throat. One clings to the glass with the suckers on its belly. John lifted the leg of his pants to check the matching circular bruises. They’ve darkened since earlier. He takes his knife from his pocket, flicking the blade back and forth. It keeps his hands busy, if not his mind.

Maybe now they’re out of the glacier, things will be easier. He might stop feeling like it’s all about to slip out of his grasp. There might be a second where nobody’s about to die where he can figure out what the hell is going on with this robot.

He promised himself he wouldn’t let his thoughts wander in that direction, but it’s too difficult to keep his head in order after the relentless hell of the last two days. Alone in the room, the only one awake, he can admit it to himself: he misses his unit. He misses the kind of chaos that became so routine it felt normal in hindsight. He misses knowing exactly where he stood with everyone in the team, his position as certain as the sun coming up in the morning (since not even _that_ can be certain here). Without that certainty, this situation is as likely to implode as explode.

The robot reminds him of when black ops would drop in on their missions, dicks swinging and fucking up everything with their cryptic cowboy bullshit. At least then there was someone higher up, someone whose job it was to tell him:  _It’s fine, they’re meant to be here. They have clearance. You follow their orders._

The hair on the back of his neck prickles. He looks up. The robot’s hulking figure fills the doorway.

‘God damn it,’ he mutters.

It has to duck to enter the lab. John scowls at it as it paces into the room and stands a short distance away. It settles into a stance that suggests it means to continue standing there all night. John stares at it, but you can’t win a staring competition with something that has no eyes. He sighs and closes the lab door.

‘Look,’ John stands just far enough from the robot that he doesn’t have to look up to face it. ‘I don’t even know if you understand English.’

The robot tilts its head.

‘See, that gives me nothing,’ John crosses his arms. ‘You’re giving me nothing. Could you, I don’t know, twinkle twice for yes?’

It twinkles, in a generalised sort of way. John scuffs his foot on the floor. ‘I just… I know Will’s safety is your priority. We have that in common.’

Maybe something sparks there, when he says that.

‘I just… I need to be sure of where we stand with each other.’

The lights change then, concentrating slowly into one spot. As if it’s focusing on John’s face. John takes a heavy breath.

‘We need to be organised, if we’re gonna get through all this,’ he continues. ‘We need order. Some kinda hierarchy.’

He swallows, looking at his feet. His voice feels thick, but he remembers how his superiors wouldn’t have stood for mumbling. So he clears his throat, steels himself, and says: ‘Whatever that’s gonna be.’

The robot is impassive. John feels himself turning red, to have an admission like that met with nothing.

‘Come on,’ he steps forward, close enough to be up in the robot’s face. ‘Do _something_. At least show me you understa—‘

Fingers close around his throat. John does nothing except gasp, and the robot lifts him easily, until his toes are brushing the floor.

‘Okay,’ John wheezes, a hand coming up slowly to touch the robot’s forearm. ‘ _Okay_.’

The robot backs him up, until he feels his thighs hit the table. He scrambles to get onto it, sucking in air as the robot releases him. Something uncomfortable digs into his back pocket. He fishes around and takes out the knife.

The robot reacts immediately. Its limbs untangle like vines, hands splitting in half to form three-clawed talons on each of its four arms. Its head drops, hunched low and close between spiny shoulders. Its stance grows broader, like something ready to pounce. The lights in its face turn fiery red.

John takes a shuddering breath. This is somehow better: this is what he expected. This is the sleek predator that has hidden awkwardly beneath the hulking humanoid form. It’s what he’d known all along: that the Robot is dangerous, that it is _not_ some poor mimicry of a human but its own creature. This, he understands with animal instinct. It’s dangerous, yes, but not a danger.

A clawed hand reaches for him, and John hands the knife over willingly. It examines the blade, testing the edge with its finger and toying with the switch mechanism. The lights are dancing now, as if the Robot is entertained. The colour fades like a sunset, until the blade is reflecting pinks and purples from the Robot’s face. Once the blade is safely tucked away, the Robot places it on the table, where John could get it if he reached for it. If he was quicker than the Robot, anyway.

‘Wait,’ John leans back, moving his head slightly to make sure the Robot’s following him. Pink stars zip into a cluster on the glass, and John takes it to mean the Robot is listening.

‘Bolt the door,’ he breathes. He gestures, and the Robot’s head turns to follow. It stalks over to the door. The movement is strikingly graceful compared to its usual stomping, and John stares as the talons at the end of one arm fold themselves into something more hand-like to manipulate the bolt.

The moment it’s locked, something loosens in him, and by the time the Robot is back he’s half-sprawled on the table, his thighs still spread where the Robot placed him. The Robot looms over him, its neck craning to examine his face. John can’t help but tip his head back as it ducks to look from below. It must be close enough to see the rabbit-fast pulse in his throat. He has to suppress a shiver when the claws of its lower hands come to rest on his thighs. An upper hand touches his jaw, guiding his chin higher. He can feel the point sitting delicately on his jugular. It scrapes along the skin, stinging without piercing, in a trail down to the hollow of his throat.

Not a threat, the touch seems to promise. John swallows, feeling the slight increase in pressure when he does. He looks up at the swirling pink of the Robot’s face. Trust. It’s showing him how to trust.

The claw moves and catches the neck of John’s sweater. The Robot looks down, pulling experimentally at the fabric. Its head cocks to one side as it draws the edge down, exposing a triangle of John’s chest. John keeps still as it explores, one long finger creeping down to find the gap between his shirt and his skin. He shivers at the cool metal and the Robot hesitates.

‘It’s alright,’ John murmurs. ‘Here.’

It’s easier not to think. He raises his arms slowly, lifting the sweater up from the hem before pulling it over his head. It’s easier to trust, easier to obey. To follow the Robot’s lead and indulge its curiosity. And when the Robot rakes six claws over his chest, creating whorls in the hair, it’s not just easy. It’s _good._

The lower hands ease his thighs incrementally apart, until John can’t ignore the way his cock is filling. The upper hands, meanwhile, are investigating his torso, experimenting with light touches that make John ticklish, and firm ones that he melts into. The claws retract like a cat’s, allowing the Robot to grasp his shoulders and press into the muscle. John relaxes, letting the Robot encircle each arm and guide him down until his back is against the table. John shudders at the chilled surface, and at the way the Robot pins his wrists. He’s biting his lip hard enough to sting, his stomach fluttering with shallow breaths. The Robot towers over him, observing. It releases his wrists and he doesn’t move. One hand—it’s more like a hand with the claws tucked away—fits along his jaw. The Robot can reach easily from ear to ear, tilting John’s head to and fro to see how he arches. The Robot has noticed his nipples have begun to pebble in the cool air (and from arousal, John can’t deny to himself), another set of blunt fingers tracing around one and pinching gently. John wriggles into the touch, and the Robot’s grip flexes with interest on his thighs. A whine escapes him and the Robot pinches again, a little harder, to coax another noise from John’s throat.

The Robot releases his jaw to touch the other nipple, until both are pert and stinging. A metal palm spreads across his chest. John’s heart is pounding. The Robot squeezes his pectoral muscle, testing how malleable John is in its hold. John arches into it, biting back a groan. The Robot moves methodically down, its thumbs meeting at his navel and its fingers long enough to reach the table on either side of his waist. It finds which muscles will bunch and twitch in response, holding John tightly enough that it aches beautifully.

It reaches the waist of his pants, thumbs clicking on his belt.

‘Let me,’ John gasps. He undoes the buckle and the Robot prods at the mechanism, trying to follow his movements. Then he’s shucking them off, the Robot curiously tugging them from his thighs, catching them before the buckle can clank on the floor.

John’s covered in a sheen of sweat, his erection obvious where it’s trapped in his boxers. There’s already a damp stain in the fabric. The Robot notices too, one claw emerging to touch. John writhes, his hands balling into fists. The Robot follows the outline of his cock, claw catching along the ribbed fabric. John bites into his fist and growls, his eyes beginning to water.

The Robot becomes distracted by the clenching of John’s thigh, one of its four palms pressing against the muscle to feel it move. John obliges, his hips tilting desperately for friction. He’s losing track of the hands, now, where they roam over his thighs and his waist and his hips and his crotch. One thumb—is it a thumb?—trails between his balls and he whimpers.

‘God, just—‘ he wriggles frantically, gasping with relief when he frees his cock. The Robot watches as he drags down the briefs, one of its talons coming up to hook them and pull them the rest of the way off. ‘ _Please.’_

He’s sprawled naked on the table, hard as a fucking rock, with the Robot looming over him. And he’s saying _please._

The upper hands are the ones that lock around his thighs. The lower hands find their way between. A claw skitters over fragile skin and John jams his hand against his mouth again—whether to stop a scream or another _please,_ he doesn’t know.

The Robot only shows a cursory interest in his cock. It finds the leaking pre-come at the head and tests the viscosity between finger and thumb. Then it rolls his balls in (mercifully) claw-less hands. He’s spread wide open, blunt fingers exploring the cleft of his ass. One traces over his rim and he shudders, groaning into the meat of his palm.

The metal finger is cool and smooth, the tip of it sliding into him easily. It knocks all the breath from John’s lungs. The Robot probes an inch deeper. His body offers little resistance to the tapered finger, until it sinks to its—knuckles, he could call them. He feels the joint meet the rim of his hole, the digit twisting inside him and finding what makes him tick.

The Robot shifts its stance, its head turning away from John. He lifts himself onto his elbows in alarm, but the room is still empty. One of the Robot’s hands—it has _so many goddamn hands_ —is dipping into the eel tank. It comes out with fingers dripping with petroleum, and John collapses back onto the table. It stinks, but he can’t find it in himself to care. The Robot replaces its dry finger with a slick one, and John whimpers at the brief absence. The new digit is cold and distinctly foreign inside him. The Robot eases its way along, still cautious and inquisitive. When the first knuckle pops inside him, John gasps with relief, his hips lifting off the table.

The Robot squeezes his thigh to still him. John’s focus zeroes in on the six pinpricks. As he strains deliberately against them, he feels the claws puncture before the Robot adjusts its grip. Six marks that no-one will see, that will need no explanation after the hell they’ve been through. Six marks all to himself.

When the Robot finds John’s prostate, he has to swallow a scream. It recognises his reaction, crooking its finger and rubbing over the spot with the rounded fingertip. God, it’s been a while since he last did this with Maureen. The Robot’s fingers are long, but they’re narrow, so the second one fits into him without a struggle. John gropes for something to muffle himself with, knowing he’s only going to get louder. He finds the briefs where the Robot discarded them beside him, and _fuck—_ they’ll do. He can taste himself as he stuffs them in his mouth, and he has to shove a hand against his cock to suppress the surge of arousal.

A third finger nudges in and it’s a stretch, but the Robot is too well-oiled, too methodical for it to hurt. The fingers twist and turn inside him with uncanny dexterity, prying him open and finding every place inside him that makes him thrash like a fish out of water. He can feel the ridges of the furthest knuckles catching on his rim, while the fingertips are curling in on themselves to thicken and fuse.

He wants more. He’s slippery with sweat and petroleum, rocking down onto the joints and willing himself to stretch wider. The Robot looks up at him, its face flashing bright pinks and darkness. John takes the fabric out of his mouth.

‘Whatever you’re gonna do,’ John lifts his head. ‘Do it.’

It lays a palm across the tender skin where his thigh meets his ass, a thumb touching his tailbone and a forefinger alongside his cock. Christ, its hands are so fucking _big_ and there’s so fucking _many_ of them.

The Robot’s face flashes again, and there’s a low humming sound. A sudden spark hits him, stinging like a bitch and leaving harsh shocks tearing through him in its wake. He yelps into the makeshift gag. He can feel his muscles beat with blood, throbbing in response to the electric shocks. In the wake of the shock, the long ache of it bleeds into the other sensations, and he realises his muscles have relaxed enough to allow the Robot to sink down to its wrist inside him.

The fist rocks and John bites his lip, the Robot keeping him right on the edge of pleasure and pain. The limb is slender, smoother than a human wrist, and John knows he can take more. The hand that zapped him tenses, and the Robot’s face shows another pink flash.

‘Again,’ John affirms, and this time a series of stings nip at him. They pop and fizz like fireworks under his skin, until he’s slack and ready. Then the hands on his thighs start pulling and plying him, and John has to shove the gag back into his mouth as the Robot flips him over without pulling out. He scrambles to keep up, landing on his chest and knocking the wind out of himself. Hands are caressing his ass, spreading him and letting him readjust. The hand buried in him is still slick and nimble as it explores this new angle.

Then it starts to vibrate.

John buries his face in his hands, wailing into the balled-up fabric. The Robot builds from a humming to an insistent throb, making John’s cock pulse helplessly. The fingers are moving in some cryptic pattern, drumming on his prostate. The temptation to touch his cock is almost unbearable, but John knows he’s going to come the moment he does. He’s not ready for this to be over.

The Robot pulls him to his knees, keeping him supported—he knows damn well he couldn’t support himself. The wrist flexes, and the thumb begins to slide out of him, each ridge dragging exquisitely along the way. John clenches a useless fist when it finally pops free. The thumb keeps vibrating and caressing his rim, another hand scooping so much oil John can feel it dripping down his balls. The relentless thrumming has his nerves feeling electric. The fingers begin to work themselves free, each pull feels even better than everything else so far. The Robot gets a knuckle out only to push back in again, fucking him a few times until he feels tears spring in his eyes. It pauses a moment where the joint is at its thickest, the vibration increasing until John can no longer differentiate between his own muscles throbbing and the Robot’s movement.

He’s grateful for the gag muffling his cry when the last finger slides free. He misses it already, the feeling of fullness. Nothing ever quite compares. He wonders thickly if he’ll remember later how easy it is not to feel empty—how physical that need really is.

The Robot continues touching him, massaging the tension out of his thighs and caressing the tender skin of his hole. He’s panting, still hard, still needy. His blood is rushing in his ears and he’s a little delirious. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t pay attention to the splashing in the tank, until something warm and wriggling flicks against his hole.

His head whips around to check what the fuck is going on. The Robot has one of the eels in its hand, its tail lapping his skin.

 _Holy fuck,_ he tries to say, and remembers he’s gagged. But god, it feels good, hot and slippery and writhing. And he thinks he might do just about anything if it means the Robot will fill him again.

The Robot looks at him. It moves the eel away and John almost screams through the gag. His shoulders sag with relief when it returns, and he forces himself to look at the Robot. He nods. The Robot’s face floods with pink.

He squeezes his eyes shut, dropping his forehead onto the cool table. A flush burns from his scalp to his toes. He grinds his teeth as the eel is nudged into him. It’s nothing like the smooth, practiced movement of the Robot. This is chaos, the eel pulling itself into the warm dark space of his insides. The eel fits easily after the Robot’s stretching him, able to squeeze and contract itself and wriggle up into him. John can’t stop shaking, his cock dribbling onto the table with every movement. Nothing in his _life_ has ever felt this good, this much. The eel is impossibly slick and it squirms over every nerve inside him. It’s deep, John knows it’s deep and he remembers how long the creatures were, even if they looked smaller in the tank. The Robot is still holding his thighs and his ass, guiding this new thing into him with the same soothing gestures and curious touches.

The eel tapers wider at the head, and thank-fucking- _god_ they’re toothless because the Robot stops feeding the eel into him and lets John’s body swallow it whole. John gasps, his eyes spilling over with tears as the eel curls in on itself and moves deep within him. He sobs as his stomach swells against the table, and the Robot’s hands come around his hips to feel where the eel is stuffed in him. Fingers splay across his belly, the tips pressing in and making John howl from the tension. The Robot’s fingers push into him, squeezing. It feels so good that John follows with one of his own hands, making a shaky path down his side to his stomach. He’s clammy with sweat, his hair plastered down where the Robot has smoothed it. He startles when he feels the creature bulging against his skin. The pressure on his prostate is immense, forcing him down. His cock is trapped against the table, trapped against the eel. He can feel it bearing down on his cock from the inside out, his cock throbbing with it. He’s thrashing as hard as the creature inside him.

The claws have elongated again, tickling and scraping the taut skin of his abdomen. John rocks his hips back, making the claws graze sharply. At that, the Robot’s slips away, never giving him more than he can take.

This time, he hears the splashing and recognises it for what it is. What he doesn’t expect is the eel’s tail suddenly plastered across the cheeks of his ass. Clinging, John realises, the same way the bigger had one attached itself to his leg this morning. The suckers on its underbelly tug at his skin, drawing blood to the surface in a pattern that will bruise the pale and tender flesh. The eel lifts and slaps back down, branding his thighs as well. Its companion is still squirming in his belly. The Robot coaxes the eel to detach from him, and John yelps as the creature is steered into him headfirst. He clamps down hard in surprise, and the Robot sends tingling sensations through his muscles again, pacifying both him and the eels for a moment. Oil drizzles down him as the neck of the eel breaches him, and then it’s almost easy, John languid as the Robot lets the eel slip in and make itself at home. He can’t think of anything beyond the pressure and the pleasure of it, a kind of fullness that hurts in all the ways he needs. It feels as though the pair of them are chasing each other in circles as the Robot grabs his legs and brings him back up to his knees.

The back of a claw, cool and slick, trails from his tailbone to his hole. It flutters in response, but the claw continues its way down to run over his balls to his shaft. The Robot’s fingertips wrap delicately around, in too loose a hold to be sharp. His cock jumps from the attention, and the Robot tests his reactions as it traces a circle around the hypersensitive head. It reaches for his balls, cupping and rolling them curiously as they draw tighter with arousal. There’s something about the Robot’s fascinated objectivity that clears John’s mind completely. He’s immersed in the sensations; he exists only as a reaction to the Robot’s action. And for the first time since he left Earth, his head is _quiet._

The other pair of hands are reaching under him, combing through the hair on his chest to find his nipples. The claws tweak and pinch, making John hiss. The Robot has guessed he likes the sharper touch, tugging and toying with him until he’s sure his shirts are going to sting for days. One hand on his balls and two on his nipples. John almost forgets that there’s a fourth hand.

This time, it’s welcome when he feels the eel probing into him. It’s a struggle, but the he thinks of the seething, aching fullness of the first two. He wants another, and the Robot trusts him to take another. The Robot sends another series of electrical impulses, small but sharp. It’s a different kind of hurt from the stretch of penetration, not a distraction but a harmony. It renders him pliant, and the Robot prises him open. His hole contracts in the wake of the eel’s neck, squeezing around each twitch of the eel’s movement. The Robot pulls the eel out slightly and he gasps, his ass clamping down and sucking it back in when the Robot releases. He thumps a fist on the table in frustration, begging wordlessly for more. The protruding tail of the eel flails and smacks his thighs hard enough to bruise, leaving him smeared. The clawless fingers of the Robot are a constant presence, gently guiding the creature when needed, prodding John’s muscles when they constrict too tightly.

As the eel narrows, the suckers flick against his rim and triggers shudders in him. He’s heavy with the roiling mass of them, lightheaded from lust and pain. The Robot holds him securely, or he’s sure he’d melt and flow right off the table and seep into the earth. He draws a long, staggered breath, blinking. His face is damp with tears, teeth locked around the gag. The creature finally disappears inside him, the Robot’s cool fingers soothing the soreness of his rim.

Morbid fascination sends his hand back to his abdomen, clutching the spasming muscles, squeezing where the eels protrude and stretch him. It’s fucking filthy, like no other feeling he’s known, his body pushed to limits he never imagined he had. But the Robot is there, attentive and careful. _Trust_ , he reminds himself. It’s about trust. That, and the way he can drive his fingers into the taut skin and _feel_ their frenzied slithering. He wonders if he could get off just from this, from the pressure and the fullness and the desperation. But he slides his hand lower, unable to ignore the difficulty of reaching around the bulge of eels, and he gets a hold of his cock where it strains against his belly.

He pumps once, then twice, the arousal almost overwhelming. His cock is so hard it hurts, leaking obscenely at the faintest touch. The pleasure coils up his spine, his thighs burning as he thrusts helplessly into his fist. He wants to kick but the Robot keeps his legs trapped. His other hand is running through his hair, gripping and pulling to keep himself grounded. He can’t _think_ for the relentless seething movement inside him. The Robot nudges a finger against his perineum and he sees white behind his eyes. He yells into the gag, sobbing roughly as he comes all over his hand, his stomach, the table. The Robot guides him through every aftershock, endless waves of it roiling within him. He slumps boneless on the table, unable to catch his breath, while the Robot rubs the last of the tension from every joint.

Two spindly fingers reach inside him, and John starts shaking uncontrollably as the Robot catches an eel. Every twist and jerk of the eel as it’s tugged free sends another burst of pleasure through him. When one is gone, he gasps, unsure how he can already feel like two are no longer enough. He feels himself drawing tighter, resisting the Robot’s probing fingers. Claws prickle against the meat of his ass in warning, and he relents. Obedience is its own pleasure, he remembers, and he concentrates on the slide and pull of another eel writhing out of him.

It’s good that he’s gagged. If he wasn’t, he might ask the Robot if he could keep the last eel.

The Robot is slow, patiently slicking its fingers and easing him open. John feels the eel jerk inside him when the Robot catches it, and he savours each wriggling, tugging effort of resistance as the Robot removes it. When it eventually crawls free John is left hollow, a snivelling wreck sprawled limply on the table. He pulls the balled-up briefs from his mouth. The fabric is soaking wet with spit. The Robot guides his thighs together, manoeuvring him to lay on his side. It touches him all over, examining him for any lasting damage. John can only pant weakly. He stinks of sex and petroleum, and half his body is covered in welts. There are electrical stings, scratches from claws, and bruises from suckers. He suspects his the strain on his abdomen will show up in blues and purples by morning. He concentrates on breathing, and on the soft, undulating pink of the Robot’s face. Those things make sense. The shower he badly needs, the table he has to clean, and the ability to walk—that can matter later.

The Robot straightens, its limbs fusing back into four, its head held high. The stars in its face shift back into white. Maybe a warmer white, John wonders. The swirling galaxies are indecipherable again, but he thinks he catches a streak of colour among the rippling pattern, when the Robot’s face comes close to it. He reaches for it unthinking, his finger making a smear of fog on the glass. The lights gather there, and maybe—maybe he sees something.

Whatever there is, at least there’s a hierarchy now.


End file.
